Upsetting the Balance

Atvar’s suspicions doubled, then doubled again. But formality trapped him. He knew the rules for deciding the matter, though he’d never really expected to have to use them. “Very well, Shiplord,” he said, hating every word. “Since you are next senior to me but were not personally involved in raising the question, I yield control of the meeting to you until it is settled. Be assured I shall appeal to the Emperor any action taken against me.”

“Of course, Exalted Fleetlord,” Kirel said politely, although he, Atvar, and all the assembled shiplords knew the warning was meaningless. Back on Home, an appeal to the Emperor would be heard promptly. On Rabotev 2 and Halless 1, the Emperor’s viceroys performed that duty. But from here, a radio signal would take more than ten even of Tosev 3’s long years to reach Home, while another ten of them would pass awaiting a reply. Effectively, Atvar was the Emperor’s viceroy on Tosev 3, or would be if he retained his post.

Making no effort to hide his anger, he stepped away from the podium. Rather nervously, Kirel said, “Assembled shiplords, we are gathered now in the most solemn proceeding known to the Race. We may answer the question of the exalted fleetlord’s fitness to continue in office in one of two ways: either each male may enter an anonymous yes or no at his seat, the result to be displayed electronically here, or we may publicly record each shiplord’s name and choice. How say you?”

He knows the rule very well to bring it out so pat,Atvar thought. Had Kirel been loyal to him, or simply more cautious than Straha? Atvar would have to contemplate that… if he remained in any position to act on the results of his contemplation.

Straha said, “Let it be done anonymously, Superior Shiplord. That way, should the question fail”-he did not sound as if he expected it to-“the exalted fleetlord will not be in a position to take vengeance on those who questioned his competence.”

You’ll get more support that way, too, from males who would be ashamed to condemn me openly,Atvar thought. In a way, though, that reassured him: had Straha been certain of his backing, he would have asked for a public record of names.And no matter that the choice is anonymous, Straha: I’ll remember what you’vedone.

Kirel waited for any males who so desired to insist on a public record. When none did, he said, “Very well, assembled shiplords, register your choices. When the tally is complete, I shall announce the result.”

Atvar did his best to look impassive, no matter how he writhed inside. Being subjected to this tribunal of his inferiors was humiliating. It was worse than humiliating, in fact: it reminded him of the way some of the Big Ugly not-empires tried to run their affairs. The Race had expected, had intended, to bring civilization to Tosev 3. Instead, the Tosevites seemed to be barbarizing not only the shiplords but all the males of the conquest fleet.

Time stretched. After what seemed like forever, Kirel said, “Assembled shiplords, I shall now announce your decision.” Atvar stayed outwardly unconcerned, or tried to. Straha leaned forward in eager anticipation. The great hall grew as still as Atvar had ever known it; not a male wished to miss the result.

“Assembled shiplords,” Kirel said, “those favoring the removal of the fleetlord Atvar from his post constitute sixty-nine percent of your number, those favoring his retention constitute thirty-one percent. This fails to be a three-fourths majority.” He turned to Atvar. “Command us, Exalted Fleetlord.”

Atvar walked back to the podium. He looked out at the assembled shiplords, and they back at him.Command us, Kirel had said. Even with the Race’s traditions of obedience, could he command these males when two out of three of them had declared he was not fit to do so? He would have to find out.

And how was he supposed to treat the Big Uglies, now that they could do serious damage not only to the Race but also to their precious planet? Before, negotiations had either been about small-scale procedural matters like treatment and exchange of prisoners or over terms of surrender to the Race. Now… he’d have to find that out, too.

Vyacheslav Molotov hated flying. He reckoned going in a drafty biplane to Germany and then on a later air trip to England among the worst experiences of his life. But flying in a human-made airplane, however appalling that was, paled to insignificance beside taking off in a Lizard rocket ship to zoom up into outer space to talk with the commander of the imperialist aggressors from the stars.